It was my turn to tell Nasrah about my life. So I went into detail about our carefree but disciplined life at home. I described how my mother enforced her will with the cane when necessary. My taking responsibility for disciplining Salma did not appear to surprise her.

She asked me how the prison caning compared with what I got from Mother. I told her the prison caning was worse, but the experience of my mother’s canings helped me a lot in dealing with it.

Nasrah told me she had caned her little sister Leilah twice. The first time, Leilah was just sixteen and had been a problem for a few days. Her patience snapped, and she gave Leilah the choice of grounding or three strokes of the cane. Leilah chose the caning. She went over her sister’s knee, with a bare bum for a hand spanking. Three hard strokes of the cane followed. It stopped Leilah from misbehaving.

Nasrah said she caned her the second time as a warning. She was determined to make sure she understood. She did it exactly three weeks after the first caning. After her second caning, Nasrah said Leilah was no more trouble. The second caning was six strokes, not very hard, just enough to make a few hard red ridges Leilah would feel for a few days.

I had let her reveal herself and I did not think there were too many gaps, but I sensed there was one, so I asked her, “Did you ever get caned growing up?”

Nasrah looked away and then began, “It was like this: As a little girl, one of my jobs was to act as a goatherd. The job was to round up the goats at night and bring them back for us to keep them in a safe and fenced-off area to stop dogs from attacking them.

“I used to go across the jebel and into the wadis to do that. Even when I was at school, I kept this up for years. Every Wednesday and Thursday night, I would still round them up.

“This was to pay respect to my family, so I did not neglect my old duties. One night when I was nearly sixteen, I went to round up the goats. They were in a wadi where I often found them when I heard some unusual noises.”

“I wondered what it was and moved about carefully. On a flat rock, I saw what I thought was the belt, guns, and binoculars that the police carry. What they were doing on this rock? The noise got louder, and I wondered if it was the goats.”

“It wasn’t the goats. Two men having what I thought was ‘man-sex’. What a shock! I had some idea about it, but I did not know it went on, and here it was right in front of me. If you can do that, I thought, and leave your kit on a rock, you deserve to lose it. So I took the binoculars.”

“I got away down the wadi quietly and rounded up the goats. Hiding the binoculars under my goatherd cloak, I am sure they never saw me. My mother would not find the binoculars because I hid them very well. They were so useful in rounding up the goats.”

“About three months later, after I got home on Wednesday, the police arrived when I was down in the wadi again. When I got home, my Mother said, the police said someone had taken a pair of binoculars that other police had left unattended somewhere in a wadi for a few moments.”

“This happened about three months ago. If you know anything about it, you must tell me.”

I had seen the police vehicle on the way to the back of the house, and I was ready for this. It had been in my mind that there could be more questions and I had a story ready. The police arrived at the house and it was the same thing again. Of course, I said I knew nothing. The police believed me then, and they went away.

“Mother said nothing, but someone in the village must have seen me using the binoculars. The police must have gone to other people and asked the same question because, about two weeks later, they were back. This time, they said, we know you use the binoculars.

“There was nothing for it but to admit it, so I took the binoculars and said, yes, here they are, and handed them over. The police asked, why did you take them?”

I said, “The two men involved had taken off their trousers and were naked from the waist down. They were having man-sex. The police and my Mother were stunned. They could not believe it, but I described what I had seen. Of course, I have seen the goats doing it and I have seen baby goats being born so I knew about sex and I had heard about ‘man-sex’ but never seen it. The police and my Mother were very shocked.”

“My story was such that they had to believe it. I could not have been making it up. The policewoman said, because of what you said, you can keep the binoculars. You must be silent about this matter.”

“I said, yes, of course. When the police left, my Mother was mad at me. She said, get into your bedroom. I had never seen her so angry. By this time, she was working at the new hospital. I knew she had a camel stick because she had threatened us with it in the past. In my bedroom, she said, bend over. I lifted my abaya, and she lowered my panties. She gave me six hard strokes of the camel stick on my bare bottom. It stung like anything. It hurt, but I suppose I deserved it.”

“I know I lay on the bed crying and the pain lasted for nearly half an hour before it eventually faded. Mother came and hugged me later. So I paid for stealing the binoculars and I kept them.”

“I never heard another word from the police. When they interviewed me for my job, they never mentioned it. I think the police let it go. They were angry about a girl seeing man-sex. However, that is how I got my only caning, so far!”

Nasrah smiled at me. I took her hand and asked, “How long did the cane marks last?”

She said, “About ten days. I realised later that night that the caning made me feel horny. I have wanted another caning ever since.”

Nasrah’s remarks told me we had more in common than the difference in our backgrounds implied. I needed to be careful. This was the first time that Nasrah had opened her soul to anyone, I was sure. Our conversations in prison must have triggered something in her.

The day was drawing on; I thought the talk would have taken a lot out of Nasrah. It would have been indiscreet to kiss her in public. You never knew who was watching.

I thought we needed to plan, so I said, “I can see how busy you are. What is the best day to meet again?”

Nasrah replied, “Everyone wants Thursday afternoon and Friday. If I am lucky, I get those two days together about twice a month. I can usually get a day during the week without a problem as long as I ask in advance. We have to take two full days off a week. Do you have a day you can take off some time?”

I said, “Yes, I have some leave built up. I get five weeks a year of statutory holidays plus all government special holidays. We are supposed to get two days off a week. So I get an extra day every two weeks on top of half a day on Thursday and Friday. Tuesday is a good day for me. I can take a day off on most Tuesdays.”

“Can you see if you can get a day off Tuesday the week after next? If you can meet up next Thursday or Friday, can you let me know? I know you have many responsibilities outside work and please, Nasrah, you must put them first.”

Nasrah squeezed my hand and said, “Let’s meet up again. Today has been wonderful. Please, I took a taxi to the cafe. Do you think you could take me to where I can get another taxi or take me home?”

“Home is nearby, up the old road that runs up the narrow wadi to the main road and then on to my compound near the airport?”

I replied, “Of course. Would you like to be going?”

Nasrah smiled and said, “Yes please, I ought to be getting home.”

So we walked back to the car, and I drove her home.

On the way to her place, I said I had to switch off my phone from about six in the morning on Wednesday until about two in the afternoon on Thursday.

Nasrah should not worry if I did not answer messages during that time. My replies would follow on the Thursday after about two p.m.

Nasrah’s house was located closer to the sea than I had thought. I was pleased to see it was big enough and had a small garden. They would get a pleasant, cooling sea breeze in the hot weather. We kissed and cuddled in the car. I saw a little tear appear in Nasrah’s eye.

I did not feel I was ‘cheating’ on Salma. We would always be sisters, and I had helped set her on a righteous path in life.

It was still daylight when I got home. There was time for a run by the sea and a small supper afterward. So, I changed into my running gear and drove down to the women’s track. I had a run, ate a local snack at a little cafe that had sprung up near the car park, and went home.

Mother was there looking at letters downstairs. She asked, “How did you get on today?”

I tried not to look too happy, but she sensed my mood.

“It was great. We can be good friends,” I replied.

Mother said, “So everything is OK then?”

I replied, “It will be when she gives me a sore bum!”

She smiled and said, “Are you in serious need of that?”

I had to admit that I was, and I blushed. “You don’t know how hard it is at work right now.”

Mother replied, “I can see how much better you feel after your meeting today. I’m happy for you. I have seen you coming home looking drained. There is only so much that anyone can take. You can’t tell me about it, but you need help. If it means a sore bum, does it matter?”

“Get ready. In fifteen minutes, I will come to your room,” I replied.

I ran upstairs, showered, and lay on the bed, music playing, canes by my side.

Mother came in. She lay down beside me and gave me a hug and a kiss.

“How many do you want?” she asked.

I replied, “Let’s start with six hard ones with the light cane, and then see how I feel. Please, can you do it slowly and rub after each stroke until I am ready for the next one?”

“Of course. How do you want to take them?”

I placed a towel over the edge of the bed and lay on it, bum up. “Like this,” I said. “And I mean do it hard.”

In position, I felt tap tap on my bum, the usual rushing noise of the cane in the air, then that white-hot sting across my bum. It hurt, but I could feel my vagina and clitoris respond. Taking it in silence; I did not gasp and barely moved.

Mother’s fingers massaged the mark. The pain subsided quickly, and I felt myself getting wet.

“I am ready,” I said. Tap-tap, the rushing noise, and ‘crack’ another stinger. I took it in silence again, but I jerked just a little.

Mother said, “You take it better than ever, you naughty girl.”

She massaged me again, and I said, “I don’t think I will need to teach Nasrah much. She told me she had caned her little sister twice to keep her in order.”

Mother replied, “Nasrah sounds just right to be your friend. If you came home before dark, it would mean that Nasrah was busy tonight. You never waste a minute, so I stood ready to oblige. I know you very well.”

This was how I took my first set of six strokes.

Mother said, “Do you need the final set of six please?”

I replied, “Yes, but can we do things a bit differently? I want to get up on my knees and position myself head down, bum up. Please, can you give me three strokes low down on each bottom cheek? I can show you where I would like them with my fingers.”

I showed Mother where I wanted them, low down on the edge of my bum, close to the crack and above the crease. Each stroke was to land on one cheek of my bottom only, I explained.

Mother said, “Why do you want them there?”

I replied, “Because when I sit on the loo, in particular, most of the mark is in the air. When I am on the bidet, it depends on how I sit on it. More of the mark may be in contact with the rim, but the rim is very narrow. Like this, I will feel it wherever I sit!”

Mother put her hand to her mouth and said, “You bad girl, I must do them even harder.”

Mother was joking, I hoped!

Getting up on the bed with my bottom in the air, I said, “Please give me three strokes on the right side first and rub between the strokes.”

The cane went tap-tap on my bottom. There was the rushing sound and ‘crack’.

The stroke felt like an electric shock. The pain was terrible. I yelled and grabbed at the mark. A much shorter length of skin had taken all the force of the stroke. This stroke covered a much longer length of skin on the bottom cheek in question than it would if applied across both bottom cheeks.

Mother gently massaged the cane mark, and the pain decreased a bit.

“I am ready for the next one,” I said.

Tap-tap, the rushing sound was a little louder. Then another electric shock blazed across my rump, possibly worse than the first one. I yelled again but did not grab at the mark. I buried my face in the bedclothes and desperately tried not to cry.

More massaging followed from my mother.

When I had settled a bit, I felt tap-tap, the rushing sound, ‘crack’, and another horrendous stab of pain. I was halfway through these lower-down strokes.

Mother massaged gently and said, “Do you want the last three, or have you had enough?”

I thought I started it; I would finish it, so I said when I could control my voice, “Give me the last three hard and fast, don’t stop, and then massage me.”

The last three strokes rained down. I have never felt such pain; it was worse than in prison. I felt the blood roaring in my ears with every heartbeat. I realised it had stopped, and that I had collapsed on the bed. Mother was massaging the marks.

I was no longer in a lot of pain but in a dream-like state, floating on cloud nine. I gradually came back to normal existence, and the pain flooded back.

Mother said, “Let me wash down those marks with warm water in the shower, please.”

I said, “No, let me deal with it this time. Can you hang on here for a little while and let me take care of myself? I would like a talk afterward, please.”

My resolution and calmness surprised me. Mother’s caning had turned me on. Probably, I was dripping and needed time alone in the bathroom.

I went to the bidet, turned on the taps, and adjusted the nozzle.

The water ran onto my clitoris and vulva to excite me. This countered the awful pain, which I knew I would experience when my cane marks compressed on the rim of the bidet under my weight.

I was certainly correct. The pain of sitting on these fresh cane marks was severe, but it soon eased. To my surprise. I experienced one of the strongest orgasms of my life within a few seconds.

I was in the bathroom for about twenty minutes pleasuring myself. Eventually, I got up from the bidet, in less pain but with the cane marks throbbing. I dried myself and went back to my mother, who was sitting on the couch.

Mother said, “Come here and get over my knee. I want to inspect your bottom”.

I did as requested and felt Mother touch the marks. She parted the cheeks of my bottom and gently touched the opening of my vagina. I was still twitching a bit.

Mother said, “This has done you a lot of good. You deserve your pleasure. You know I only offered it because I could see that desperate look in your eyes. The look in your eyes goes away for a few weeks after you have had a good hard caning.”

“I realised that the severity of the caning determines how long it takes before you are desperate again. It took five to six weeks after your prison canings and that was a long time for you.”

Mother went on, “Please be careful with Nasrah. She has experienced nothing like this, I’m sure!”

In reply, I said, “To jeopardise our relationship would be too silly, don’t worry.”

Mother took my head in her hands and looked me in the eye.

She continued, “You must bring Nasrah back here if it’s not convenient for her place. I would love to meet her. Nasrah is taking care of my treasured daughter and I am grateful. She is welcome to stay the night with you.”

“You are not just a treasure to me. You are a treasure to the Nation. Why do you think they sent the Navy to tell you to sail back to the club? They did not want to lose a treasure like you!”

I burst into...